Mine
by Ionaf
Summary: A little boy. From a mother's point of view.
1. Mine

Title: **Mine to Protect**

Summary: Someone's little boy. From a mother's point of view. [short story] 

Disclaimer: I only own this plot. Everything else (characters, lingo, world, etc.) belongs to J.K. Rowling. 

            When I see my little boy run down the stairs, I feel a sense of pride. I helped him learn how to run down those stairs, how to walk, I potty-trained him. 

My little boy is too young to understand love or hate. I cannot protect him, only try. 

            I see him play with his train set and blocks and I think to myself, _he is so imaginative. When I see him throw his tantrums, I laugh inside, remembering his face for times ahead. When I see him cry, I want to cry also. _

            My little boy is so happy and beautiful in every way. His eyes light up when he sees a new toy or plaything, his smile compliments his eyes, and those chubby cheeks form dimples when he smiles. 

            I love my little boy so much, and yet at the same time, I resent having brought him into this world. There is so much fear and hate, so little hope and love. I can't protect him forever, correct? I wish I could live forever with my little boy, with him not having to experience all the ages of this world, only the comfort of my arms. But he must grow up and be a man and protect his own family. I want to give him anything he wants, but spoiling him won't keep him my little boy forever. He must grow up. He must leave home. He must learn. 

            As my little boy chases squirrels, his mind only thinks of catching one to bring home for his father to show what a big boy he is. As my little boy chases squirrels, my mind only thinks of what will happen if my little boy doesn't catch the squirrel. Disappointment, rage. 

I fear for what he may think of his father, I fear for what he might think of his father's goals. I do not want him to grow up like his father. His father, though caring for himself and family, is a tyrant. People both fear and yet, he is popular. His father is, figuratively speaking, a murderer. Ordering no more harsh punishments but the worst of all---death on capture. 

His father is _too ambitious; I am beginning to wonder at why I married him. But this marriage brought me the only joy in my life—my little boy. He is so inquisitive about all things, and so I try to answer him as best I can. But some things, some things his father forbids me to tell him. When he asks a particular question, I am to remain silent until he is bored and seeks other pastimes. I so wish I could tell him, but it would only give him nightmares to corrupt his 5-year-old mind. No mother wants that._

I remember when he was born: I realized that I have a will. When my son was born and when I saw his face, I froze. He was _mine._

I looked at him. He was a bloody mess, so I handed him to the midwife and promptly fainted. 

When I awoke, I was in a room that was filled with flowers and gift baskets and cards and balloons. Then, I saw my husband come in, with what looked like a loaf of bread. As he drew nearer, I realized that it was my baby. 

Then my husband kissed me on the forehead and handed my son to me. 

I felt pride in my son when some of the nurses stopped to glance at my son, he was so beautiful. 

Wispy, fair hair lay on his head, while a pouty mouth exhibited a pinkish tone. He opened his eyes, and I saw all the shades of blue that were ever possible. He yawned, and his cheeks bloomed roses and I smiled the most painful yet broadest smile I've ever smiled in my life. It was the crowning moment of my life when he smiled back at me.

            There is the pained cry of my little boy. He has fallen chasing a squirrel and scraped his knee. I walk to him and bend down to kiss his knee and hug him to make him feel better. 

"Okay, sweetheart?" I say. 

"Yes, Mama. Thank you, Mama. I love you." 

"I love you, too." I say, ruffling his fair hair. 

"Let's eat cookies, Mama. Chasin' squirrels makes me 'ungry." 

"C'mon, then sweetheart, let's have cookies." I take his hand, his tiny, grubby little hand dirty from falling into the dirt. 

We walk back to the house where our house-elf stands, waiting for an order. I tell her to bring cookies and tea out side here, on the patio. 

After washing our hands, we return outside where our house-elf has set a teapot, lemonade, and two small white porcelain plates of butter cookies on doilies, all on the white wicker table in the middle of the grassy backyard. 

Sipping my tea, watching my son play zoom on his toy broomstick, his feet bare, toes skimming the grass, a smile of delight on his face.

_He loves to fly. _

I know I cannot protect my son, but trying is better than not trying at all. 

I love him enough to die for him. As my son snacks on cookies, he thinks about a story to tell his father about what happened to his knee. I know what he thinks sometimes. 

After all, we're connected by blood. A special bond for mothers, most especially for magical ones. 

I can imagine him being the hero of some ghastly dragon's wrath. As my son snacks on cookies, I think about how to protect him. I realize I can't, for the umpteenth time. But I will try, because he is mine to protect. 

            He is my little boy, my little hero, my ray of sunshine, the subject of my prayers at night and wishes during the day. He is my son, Bartemius Crouch, the fruit of my being, the blood of my blood. Mine to protect, mine to protect, mine to protect, mine to protect, mine to protect… I fall asleep, right in that comfortable wide wicker chair, cushions on the back and seat, and my son kisses me on the forehead, whispers "I love you", and runs off to play again, chasing squirrels. 

This time, he will try to catch one to make his father _and _mother proud. 

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August 7, 2003- It's been a while since I've update this fic. Thank you to the four reviews I have. And on hasn't showed up, so it's down there. Anyway, this is my really fluffy fic, about a mother's thoughts in the breezy, carefree spring days when there's nothing better to do than gulp lemonade and chase squirrels. I wrote it from a surge of ideas from my Muse, and in doing so, I *forgot* about my homework. The story sounds madly cheesy from the author's point of view, but it makes you smile, too. But a little suspense on who the boy and mother is is nice. ^_^ About the special bond thing- it's a thing my mother believes exists, like when she just _knew I didn't take a bath one night. I asked her, and she explained to me, "Because I'm your _mother_. I __know. We share blood. I can feel it." I was creeped out, but then I decided to use it here. Isn't that nice? And my mother is almost as nice as Mrs. Black. So, cheers, and I hope you liked it. I think it's waaaaaaaaaaay too cheesy, though. _

**Linuial -  **

*sob*rnrnThat was... beautiful. All the way through I was trying to figure out who the boy and mother could be. I was almost convinced it was Draco, and then you hit me with that. Wow. My heart simply bleeds for what I know she's about to go through.rnrnI loved the imagery in this fic, could actually see the little boy chasing squirrels for his father. *again with the sob*rnrnThankyou for this fic. It was lovely to read :D Also thanks for reviewing Elentari's fic (I was the one who coded/introduced it)rnrnWrite more? Please? :D

Thank you for the review. So sorry it didn't show up. 


	2. Guilt

Title: Guilt

Disclaimer: Would I be writing fan fiction if this were mine?

Summary: A baby. And guilt.

**X**

I may be who I was given to, but I am still human. The baby kicked again today, on my way down to breakfast. My baby kicks a lot, but it's a show of his strength. I hope he will be a strong baby and a good person. _He_. An odd way to refer to the baby as, we don't know what the sex is. My husband wants a boy; one does not hear our last name often.

My husband is a little proud when it comes to his family—why not? They are wealthy and live in a large, comfortable manor. But being wealthy is not being free. My husband is sometimes short of things when it comes to comforts of the home—but with this baby, I hope he changes. He is a stubborn man, my husband. He has no real job, but connections with people of name. He is very extraordinary, my husband, not like any other man I'd normally meet. He conducts himself with grace and there is a light in his eyes, a trusting feeling washes over you as you speak with him. Our child will be just like him, I think sometimes, full of grace and charm.

Lying in bed, I daydream of this baby, raising him, brushing her hair, teaching him to walk and her to brush her teeth. Although I can never imagine what my child looks like—they say children are miniature versions of you. But I cannot bear to see a daughter of mine grow up to be like me, with so many secrets and all the bad I've done—this world is unfit for a child of mine!

_ I am so selfish_, I think. I want the very best for my child—who doesn't? But in doing this, I think of how bad the world is and how dark and cold and unforgiving it is. _What have I done? _I have not been good to the world. It is too late now, to not have my baby. I would be doing it a favor. It is too late to start a garden—my husband would think it shameful for me to work with my hands and disgusting to toil with the earth and sweat.

We are noble people and do not lower ourselves to work.

**X**

Six of nine months are gone. It feels like yesterday when I started to vomit and grow frustrated over small things. But as each day passes, I feel less and less happy to have this baby—the world frightens me and I frighten myself. The nine months are closing, rapidly, in on me and I feel cornered every morning and pushed to the brink. I cannot handle myself any longer.

The door to the manor opens—my husband is home! I have something to tell him. I settle in my chair—the window is black now—and wait for his footsteps down the corridor and the knock on our door. I clear my voice and cast a look at my bag—it has never been so full.

The bag sits next to the wardrobe, fat and the seam smiles through the cracked leather. The footsteps are louder, clearer now. The knock is imminent. I smile and place my hand on my belly—the baby knows what is coming, he knows what I will say. He kicks in disagreement. The pain is unbearable. The door opens. The pain is unbearable and my smile is dying.

"Welcome home, Tom. I have something to tell you," I say, smiling through the baby's kicking and the feeling the warm flush of blood—is the guilt leaving?

Author's Notes: Well, I hope you liked it. It's the follow-up to the first mother/child story. I might do more, but it depends on schoolwork. I hope I provided enough suspense—I had a hard time leaving clues and generally, the story itself. In your reviews, _if_ you review, gives tips on creating some more suspense. This story felt so much more difficult to write; all the presents behind the tree were hard to reach. I couldn't evoke that sense of simplicity and sinister love like in the first one…maybe the next will be better. Thanks for r/r.


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